


Things That Melt

by volti



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: 707 Route Spoilers, Anxiety, Borderline Personality Disorder, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Implied Suicide Attempt, Major Spoilers, Name Reveals, Other, Spoilers, secret ending spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8782888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volti/pseuds/volti
Summary: The whipped cream in a mug of hot chocolate. An ice cream cone unattended. Emotional walls, with time. Him, when he still hates you and his brother. Him, when he doesn't anymore.

In which MC and Unknown come to terms, featuring books, warm drinks, and the occasional ugly sweaters. [Warning: Major Spoilers for 707's Route & Secret Ending 02, so proceed with caution!]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't let me finish Mystic Messenger at 2 in the morning. Or let me love Unknown. Or get me buzzed on Starbucks holiday drinks. This is what happens when you put all three together. I'm already crying.
> 
> Tags will probably added as the story goes, but the ones above should be good for now!
> 
> Also, just a heads up that Unknown/Saeran is coded as having BPD and MC is coded as having anxiety here, and both of those will be touched upon and developed as the story goes. Anything written toward those topics comes from my personal experience with them and shouldn't be taken as a universal or stereotypical experience. Just wanted to make that clear before moving forward!
> 
> I hope you enjoy <3 this fic means a lot to me, even if it's only chapter one.

It wouldn't have made sense to refuse. What kind of partner would it make you to not at least try and make nice with Saeyoung's brother? (Well. Maybe it would have made you the kind of person who actually put their foot down about people who tricked them into infiltrating an organization at the hands of a religious cult, but really, who was counting?)

But Saeyoung had a job interview today—something _secure_ , he assured you—and he said he'd feel safer if someone were there with Saeran, and that he'd make it up to you after, he promised. With something more than just another bag of chips and bottle of Dr. Pepper, even; that was how you knew he meant it.

"So you don't trust him at home alone," you'd told him the night before, during one of the near-nightly phone calls he'd promised you now that he had a chance to settle down with himself. (You didn't ask. He just gave.)

"Something like that," Saeyoung murmured, in that tone that meant he didn't want to talk about it, or shouldn't. And then, more gently, "I just think… it'd be good for the two of you to get to know each other better. Make amends."

You had to wonder just how rose-colored his glasses were, or maybe how colored by nostalgia, or guilt, but maybe this was why he'd taken that time away from you in the first place. Because this was his situation to work with, and you were the partner, not the problem-solver. You could give him credit for that. And for talking to you in pieces, in the aftermath, as if he were contemplating the best way to say everything. You could give him credit for a lot of things.

Which was why you were here in the first place, a month out from the mission that brought Saeran back, trying to remember the bits and pieces of binary code and Arabic Saeyoung had taught you whenever you were alone. The guttural letters were as foreign and heavy on your tongue as the ones and zeroes were almost familial when you answered each security question his automated door posed. You prayed that it would take pity on your pronunciation and let you in anyway, but before you could make it through the last syllables of what was _supposed_ to be "I want to dance with you tonight," the door swung open, and Saeyoung lingered just inside his house, the expression on his face shifting from curious to affectionate.

You had to admit, he cleaned up pretty well in a suit and tie. (Was this what he would have looked like if you'd managed to make it to the RFA party?) He'd said something over the phone about how the position let him work from home instead of being one of those standard nine-to-fives—nothing he _really_ needed a suit and tie for in the grand scheme of things, but better safe than sorry, you supposed. And you certainly weren't complaining, either.

Saeyoung invited you in with a squeeze of the hand and a tight hug, as if words were too much for the moment. It almost made you wonder if he'd told his brother you were going to be here in the first place, and was trying to keep you a secret for the time being. And then you wondered if Saeran was one for being surprised, considering all the ways he'd unexpectedly come into your life—unexpected for you, all the more planned for him.

But there was Saeran, folded into himself at the far end of the couch and looking out the window from a distance with a knot in his brow. (Did he know he could move closer? Did he even want to?) Another squeeze from Saeyoung's hand told you to hang back for a moment, and he slipped away toward the sofa to crouch in front of his brother.

"Saeran," he said, just loud enough for you to hear from a few feet away. "I'm leaving now, okay? I'll be back in a few hours."

Saeran folded his arms a little tighter with nothing but a curt nod.

"Do you want me to call when I'm on my way home?"

A shake of the head, fast enough that some of Saeran's hair flew into his eyes. It was still white, you realized, and looked like it needed to be cut. You figured the natural red would have come back to him in the time he'd been away from Mint Eye, but you weren't about to start asking about things like that. Not so soon after.

"My friend's here if you need anything, okay? You remember them, they've been here a few times." Saeyoung was gesturing to you now, and you took a step forward as if to silently introduce yourself. At this point, you didn't really know if you needed to, all events considered, but you might as well. "They don't bite," he added with a laugh.

Saeran snorted, lifted his arm as if to say, _They sure do_. (Okay, so maybe he wasn't _totally_ over the time he broke into the apartment-cum-RFA-office. You could give him that. As long as he gave you the fact that you couldn't possibly be over everything he'd put you through either. At least you were willing to overlook false equivalencies for now.)

With a clap to your shoulder and another long hug for luck, Saeyoung was out of the apartment, now eerily silent except for the whir of the sleeping computer in his office. Saeran still hadn't moved much beyond shifting in his spot on the couch, the springs squeaking in protest. 

Well, no better time to make yourself at home.

Saeyoung was right that you'd visited his home a couple of times, but not nearly long enough to really take in the place. You spent most of the time in the office, where you had the luxury of talking privately and Saeyoung had the luxury of glass walls to peek over at his brother every so often. For his safety, he told you. (He was shaking the afternoon he told you about the day he walked into the house to see Saeran with a shard of glass in his fist, hovering dangerously close to his upturned wrist. He hadn't told you immediately after the fact either, and you couldn't fault him for it.)

Now, you had the chance to note the splashes of red on the walls, the decorative security tape, a trim of black and yellow chevrons, and the odd traffic light that hung from the ceiling. You had no idea if it was a novelty, or something he'd gotten in exchange as part of some intelligence mission. Whatever it was, you were sure there was a story behind it, told in Saeyoung's trademark "Defender of Justice" fashion. He still kept the moniker, of course. Still kept up the façade, too, with people he was just getting to know. A defense mechanism, to be sure, or a wall—he said it was less _you'll be in danger if you get close to me_ and more _you need to unlock Friendship Level 7 for this information_.

Saeran still hadn't said anything as you hung up your coat and stuffed your bag away in the closet. The anxiety was starting to kick in, and you didn't have any pockets to stuff your hands into. You had to say something. Anything.

You caved with a greeting; Saeran sighed and turned toward the window again. "So?" he finally mumbled. "What? Are you my babysitter now, or something?"

At least he was talking to you. At least he didn't hate you that much. Deep breaths, you told yourself. It isn't your fault. Nothing about this is your fault. You're okay. You're all right.

"I wouldn't say that, exactly," you managed. "I think Saeyoung just thought you'd like some company while he was gone. Being by yourself can be awfully lonely sometimes. Trust me, I know." God, why did you have to forget your spinner ring on the bathroom counter today of all days? You really didn't want to start picking at your fingernails again; you were coming on a whole month without it now.

Saeran winced at the sound of his brother's name; maybe he still wasn't used to it yet. Or maybe he just wasn't used to you saying it yet. "Stop trying to sugarcoat it." The tone of his voice bit you underneath your skin. ( _It's not your fault, you're okay, you're all right._ ) "He thinks I'm going to hurt myself if he leaves me alone. Why do you think he's picking jobs where he can work from home?"

You weren't about to interrupt him; instead, you pulled up a chair across from him, crossing your arms and hoping he didn't think you were mocking him by imitating him. Maybe he'd understand that you were holding yourself together, too. Or maybe he wouldn't. Or maybe he wouldn't want to.

He wasn't looking at you, but his eyes narrowed, and his fingers curled tight into the sleeves of his sweater—cream-colored with what looked like an argyle pattern around the middle. (Did he know you'd picked it out in passing last week, on a window-shopping date with Saeyoung?) "Can you both just fucking _stop it?_ " It was more a statement than a question, and his knuckles went white at the tail-end of it.

You bit your lip. "Stop what, exactly?"

" _Sheltering me!_ " Saeran turned toward you now, eyes flashing and jaw squared and a few decibels short of screaming. "I don't care what happened, I don't care that you're dating—so he can stop fucking calling you his _friend_ , because I saw you kissing in the office one time—I don't care about _anything!_ " He looked poised to throw something, back arched and like every hair stood on end, and you braced yourself for it.

Instead, he settled back against the couch, inch by inch, and muttered, "Look. I'm not going to kill myself today, okay. That's why you're here. I'm not going to do it, so just leave me alone. You want to stay for dinner, fine. You want to sleep over, fine." His shoulders slackened, bit by bit. "Just leave me alone."

It wasn't as though you hadn't dealt with something like this before, as much as you hated calling it "dealing with it." It was just that the last time you had, it was with a student who had to sacrifice their hobbies for the cram school where you worked a handful of hours every week. It hadn't gotten to the point of suicidal ideation, but the lashing out fell on thickening skin. You weren't exactly going to pull out all the teacher-certified stops on him yet, if at all, and for all of Saeran's reactions, he was still an adult.

Instead, you said, "Okay," and got to your feet, putting the chair back in place and taking refuge in Saeyoung's office. You didn't touch any of the equipment, partly because you didn't want to ruin any works-in-progress he had going on, and partly because you were about ninety percent sure that his passwords only responded to his voice and touch anyway. And you probably would have read or chipped away at the game in your handheld system, if you weren't looking up every few minutes to see if Saeran was okay.

Saeyoung was right. It was a good spot to keep watch on the open spaces.

Saeran still wasn't moving, either, but his arms weren't folded so tightly, and his eyes were starting to close. And you weren't getting a damn thing done straddling the line between leaving well enough alone and keeping good on your own word.

So you shuffled into the kitchen, careful not to disturb him, and poked through the refrigerator and some of the cabinets. The good thing about Saeyoung taking care of someone else and having company over was that he actually kept the the place stocked with food now, _real_ food, and so a few moments later, you'd managed to find a few packets of hot cocoa mix, a jug of milk, and a can of whipped cream that you were sure he'd sprayed directly into his mouth at least twice. (And maybe Saeran too. You wouldn't put it past him, or anyone, really.) You didn't know how you'd pulled out a saucepan without making a ruckus to startle Saeran back into passive vigilance, but you were too busy already getting to work to care.

It took a while, but soon you'd put together two star-patterned mugs of the stuff, topped with the whipped cream. Saeran's eyes were only half-closed by the time you got to him, and when he stirred to look at you fully, he settled back into a glare. But you paid him no mind, only set one of the mugs on the table beside him and carried your own back to the office space. That was it. That was all the mind you would pay him. You didn't have the capacity for much more than that.

What would you tell Saeyoung when he came back from the interview? That his brother probably hated you? That his brother probably still hated _him_? Did either of them expect you to break down then, or later? Or at all? God, how pathetic would that be if you actually did? What if you couldn't be trusted with anything after that? Or anyone?

No. No, you had to be rational about this. You had to catch yourself, pull back from those thoughts. Talk to yourself. Saeyoung wouldn't have entrusted any of this to you if he didn't care about you, all efforts to push you away be damned. He wouldn't have asked to check in with you later, wouldn't have at least let you and Saeran be in each other's spaces before asking you to do something like this. Hell, he probably wouldn't have let you into Saeran's life at all. You had to consider this an honor, didn't yo?

You peered through the glass wall. It looked like Saeran hadn't really moved, but maybe he'd at least taken a sip. You'd give him the benefit of the doubt.

In the remaining couple of hours that Saeyoung was gone, you kept to yourself with an old paperback propped up on your knees, fingers drumming up a rhythm against the floor so they had something to do. Occasionally you turned back, just to keep an eye on Saeran, and at one point he stole into the office to grab a laptop and a pair of headphones, but the silence continued to hang heavy in the air. He seemed to huddle in front of the computer, headphones clapped tight over his ears, but he wasn't clicking or typing madly the way you'd seen Saeyoung or Yoosung do when they were caught up in freelancing or gaming. Maybe he found comfort in just surfing the web. Or watching cat videos. You wouldn't put it past him.

The one thing that gave you comfort, as you were passing into the kitchen to wash your mug, was that Saeran's was half-empty, and whatever was left of the whipped cream had melted.

\---

Saeyoung wasn't sure if he'd gotten the job just yet, but he'd at least stepped into the office with an earnest smile, and your name sounded light when he called it. When he poked his head in, he said you looked "snug as a bug in a rug," English and all, and tossed a curious glance out into the living room, where Saeran was still curled up tight in front of the laptop, sometimes staring blankly, sometimes typing. Sometimes his brow would furrow, or he’d curse under his breath; other times he'd give a short nod and clench his fist. If he recognized your presence as you stepped out of the office, he certainly didn't dignify it with anything.

"Don't take it personally," Saeyoung commented with a hand at the small of your back before gently tapping Saeran on the shoulder. "C'mon and say goodbye, bud," he added, loud enough for Saeran to hear him over the headphones.

When Saeran looked over at you, it was little more than a flicker of the eyes; his brow wrinkled as much as the line of his mouth, and all he mumbled was, "Thanks for the drink."

You'd take it.

Saeyoung waited until your phone call to tell you more about the interview, and about the job—a half-time web and graphic design position that he really could manage from home. He said something about how the interviewers were weirdly disappointed by his resume and impressed by his portfolio, but then, "what can you do when your last job was top secret? You can't put that on a resume, can you?"

He did most of the talking this time around while you got ready for bed, said he was happy that Saeran was really getting into the online classes he'd registered him for a couple of weeks ago. That Saeran had something to do that would help him, that would absorb him for the better.

"Did he like school when you were kids?" you asked. The spinner ring was secure on your finger now, and you gave it a couple of flicks to make up for lost time. Had Saeyoung noticed how raw your nails looked before you left?

Had Saeran?

You could almost hear Saeyoung shift uncomfortably. "He liked the books I read when we were kids." He paused for a moment, then seemed to perk up again, in a way that didn't seem fake in the slightest. You were still talking to Saeyoung, you could tell. "Maybe you could tutor him sometime! I mean, I could pay you if you wanted, 'cause I know it's your job and all, I’m not gonna devalue that—"

"Saeyoung..." Your voice was the kind of soft that told him he was getting ahead of himself. Again. He'd heard it before, and he apologized and gave you the room to explain. "Teaching can be... delicate. He has every reason to push me away, you know?"

Had you been having this conversation in bed instead of over the phone, you might have seen him bite his lip and glance away, like he was really considering every word. Or like he remembered that once upon a time, he had every reason, too.

Still, you backpedaled. Just a little. "I could do it, eventually," you told him, cradling the phone close to your cheek. "He just needs time. We need to be around each other more. Engaging each other instead of just, I don't know. Existing near each other."

"You'd do that for me?" Saeyoung murmured, every bit hushed and no part of him desperate for you.

"I'd do that for both of you," you replied with a nonchalant shrug. "I'd do that for us."

Silence followed for more moments than you would have liked to count, and you slipped under the covers to try and evade it. Then, Saeyoung said, "Could you come tomorrow morning? Before you have to go to work?"

You blinked, propping yourself up on one elbow. "Would he like that?"

Saeyoung laughed; it chilled you not to hear it in person, and warmed you to hear it at all. "I think he'd like more of your world-famous hot chocolate."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Blue Tears??? Welcome to chapter 2 of "I enjoy suffering."
> 
> But really, thank you all so much for 500 hits already ;;!! I never expected it to get the traction it has, and I'm incredibly grateful for it. If you haven't already seen, I recently wrote a Christmas fic in the same universe as this one—you can check it out [right here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9069862)! I hope you enjoy it, and continue enjoying Things That Melt <3

You weren't exactly sure what made your hot chocolate so "world famous," but you'd take it if it meant Saeran would spare you more than a passing glance.

Which he did, from his usual spot on the couch, when you stepped into the house the next morning. He even gave you the slightest of nods before turning back to his computer, still in his pajamas. Every so often he stopped to leaf through a nearby book or scribble something down in the notebook balanced in his lap, but other than that, he was nearly every inch a scholar. 

(If you'd known that warm drinks and a respectable distance were the path to kindness from the start, you would have tried it a lot more often with a lot more people.)

Saeyoung, for his own part, slipped his fingers between yours and gave your hand a squeeze when no one else was looking, leading you toward the kitchen cabinets. Like he wanted to watch the master at work. Honestly, you would have considered him the master instead, but for all his skills, he probably thought it was for all the wrong reasons. "It's nice that he has something to do," he murmured, hopping up onto one of the counters and swinging his ankles like a child. "It's good for him, especially... like this."

"What do you mean, 'like this?'" You were busy putting ingredients together, every container lined up near the stove, and you noticed the curious spark in Saeyoung's eyes almost as much as you noticed every bit of hesitation in his voice. To be honest, you would have decided against targeting it if Saeran hadn't pulled his headphones back over his ears.

Saeyoung twisted his fingers before deciding to drum them against the countertop; you almost considered lending him your ring for a while, or buying him one of his own. "I mean..." He swallowed. "You know what I mean. It's hard for him to integrate fully into society... the way he is." The search for the right words seemed to almost choke him. "He deserves to learn for the sake of learning. In a way that's comfortable for him. He deserves to know that no one's out to weaponize his brain."

He didn't need to add, _anymore._

For a moment, the only sounds were the _click-click-click_ of the stove coming to life and the rustle of pages from the living room. For that same moment, you could do little more than grit your teeth. He was beating around the bush, and there wasn't a person in this house who didn't know it. Maybe he was doing it for his own comforts—maybe he was afraid to call things what they were. That if he did, the floodgates might open, and he might lose everything all over again. Maybe if he never gave it a name, he wouldn't have to give anything up, his own best interest be damned.

"It's social anxiety." You didn't look up from the saucepan, your voice caught somewhere between firm and forgiving. "And post-traumatic stress, too, it looks like. That's what it is. So that's what we need to call it." God, were you selfish to wish that you could be talking about literally anything else? If only for a few minutes? Was it even right to talk about Saeran like this when he was just one room over? "He deserves that much from us."

Saeyoung had long since stopped tapping his fingers; yours were starting to shake. "He doesn't want it."

"No one ever wants anything to be wrong with them, love." You managed a weak smile, turning down the heat on the stove to keep the milk from scalding. "I don't. You don't—"

"Hey, hey, _I'll_ be fine—"

"But we still owe it to ourselves to own it, don't we?"

In the silence, Saeyoung conceded, slumping forward. "That's all the doctors could figure out while he was there. Exactly what you said. Just... don't talk about it like that in front of Saeran, all right?" His teeth worried his bottom lip, fingers curled tight around the edge of the counter. "I just feel like it might trip something in him."

You sighed. "I can't tell if you're talking about him like you want to protect him or like he's a bomb about to go off."

Saeyoung bristled. You wished you didn't feel like he might argue you down into silence.

He wouldn't. He never would. But it didn't make the feeling go away. You didn't want it, either.

Somewhere in the middle of stirring in the powdered mixture, he slid off the counter to cling to your free hand. You didn't know how to tell him that he talked about his brother the way parents talked about their children after dark or at teacher conferences. Something just shy of patronizing. Some strange combination of loving and attempting to be subtle about the ways Saeran wasn't "normal." And you sure as hell didn't know how to tell him what Saeran had told you the day before. You didn't think you were supposed to.

Instead, you thumbed his knuckles, turned off the heat, and murmured, "I can't tell you what you're feeling, or how you're supposed to handle something I've never experienced." You shrugged. "All I can say is that he's got to feel out his life right now. And he deserves to be treated like a person."

"I do treat him like a person," Saeyoung insisted.

"I never said you didn't. I just think it's worth... checking yourself, sometimes. That's all."

He stopped, and you poured out enough hot chocolate for three mugs—Saeyoung once mentioned some saying that went, "if there's enough for two, there's enough for three"—and he took one away to his office with little more than a kiss to your temple. Something told you he didn't do it to keep secrets this time around.

If you'd told him the right thing, then why did it feel so... heavy? Or empty? Or like you shouldn't have said anything in the first place?

Why were you regretting bringing it up at all?

\---

Saeran, on the other hand, seemed like he might like a little company. And you weren't about to approach him like a bomb.

Instead, you greeted him and set down the remaining two mugs on the coffee table, like this was something you could get used to, and made work of searching the apartment for something to do. This time, you could hear Saeran shift behind you, and more than once you caught him dipping his finger into his whipped cream out of the corner of your eye. By the time you settled down next to him, sheets of colored paper and an empty glass jar in your hands, he'd already taken more than a few sips.

"He makes it with water," was Saeran's version of a hello, and then, "and he sticks it in the microwave."

You wrinkled your nose in sympathy. "Don't worry. I showed him the right way to do it."

If you listened closely, you could have sworn you hear him say, "Good." You didn't have to squint to see him lower his headphones, but he still tapped away at his computer, stealing glances at you every few moments. "So?" he finally said. "What do you want?"

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

"What do you _mean_ , what do I mean? What are you doing here?"

When you shrugged at Saeran, it was something more noncommittal, something sweet and fleeting. "Arts and crafts. Keeping you company. Is that okay?"

Saeran seemed to study you for a while, as if searching for any hints of deception; just beyond him, in your peripherals, Saeyoung was peering out through the glass of his office into the open space. The look on your face didn't change—it was open and kind as ever, if tinged with a nervous smile—and Saeran settled back against the couch, perhaps a little less wary. (Did he know about the hope his eyes betrayed? Did he know how big they were? How... was mesmerizing the right word for it? You weren't about to call them childlike; you figured a comparison like that was the last thing he needed. You'd had enough of it yourself.)

"Do whatever you want, I guess," he mumbled, and stuck his nose in his book again.

Well. It was certainly better than _Leave me alone._

So you got to work, cutting strips and squares of paper, folding them up and scattering them across the coffee table, a burst of color against the dull espresso. (You didn't think Saeyoung was capable of owning anything that could be described as "espresso"—or any wood color, really. You figured that was more up Jumin's alley, if everything about him weren't already sleek and black and modern. Or Jaehee's, if she had the mental capacity to actually process furniture.)

Every so often, Saeran's typing would stop, and there would be silence for a moment before it started up again. Sometimes, the couch creaked under his weight, and a couple of times you caught him looking over at your handiwork, either the paper in your hands, or the already-finished pieces, a smattering of stars and cranes. Whenever you did, though, he would immediately turn away and dart his eyes back to his computer screen.

The plan wasn't to distract him—not exactly, anyway. You just wanted to pique his curiosity a little, enough for him to start the conversation first. To get comfortable with you being around him. If you said something before he did, he might close up—he was already feigning a lack of interest; any more pushes from you, and you'd end up taking more steps backward than forth. But you didn't mind waiting. Everything was always worth the time.

At least, that was what you'd been told. It was what you tried to make yourself remember when the stress-crying reached its peak. _Everything was always worth the time._

Saeran lasted something like half an hour before he bit. "How do you do that?" He didn't exactly move toward you when you looked at him—he was still curled up in his corner—but he at least let himself be caught.

Fighting back a smile, you turned your attention to him, keeping the same respectful distance. "I can show you, if you want."

He fidgeted, not to hide away, but more like he was at odds with himself. "I have to finish my lesson," he mumbled.

In response, you pushed a few sheets of paper toward him. "For when you finish."

Saeran paused, looking between the paper and you, and his expression seemed to soften. You had to bite your lip to keep from smiling, a habit you'd picked up from work—you had a student, a few years ago, who _hated_ it when you smiled. Said it was always fake, when your heart was warm and you didn't know what else to do in the face of nervousness. You wouldn't have put it past Saeran to be the same way, but you hoped that he wasn't. He could use a smile every now and then. Instead of speaking, he nodded slowly, and turned back to his work.

You waited until he wasn't looking to let the smile crack across your face, full and bright and everything you wanted to show him when he was ready to see it. When you lifted your gaze, Saeyoung was grinning, too, through the glass. And, more like his brother than he probably intended, he turned away when you caught him.

The pleasant thing about Saeran was that the more minutes you spent with him, the less you felt obligated to strike up a conversation with him. The more you could rely on your ring and sips of hot chocolate to carry you through the bits of silence that made you seize up. The more you could be mindful of how the paper folded under your fingertips, or how intently Saeran stared at the computer screen or his notebook when you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. Or how, when you turned your head just so, you noticed that now his headphones were hanging around his neck instead.

So that maybe you didn't have to talk, but maybe he didn't mind if you did. So that you could, at least, exist in his space for now. He certainly didn't need to ask you to return the favor, if he wanted you to. He was _allowed_ to want you to.

You had to measure the minutes in origami because you'd nearly lost track of them, but several stars and a couple of cranes later, Saeran cleared his throat and brushed the scattered ones aside to set down his schoolwork. There was something painfully cautious about how he touched them, like they were made of porcelain instead of paper. Or, perhaps, like he needed to apologize for moving them at all. For taking up his space. "Show me," he murmured, fingers curling tight into the cuffs of his shirt as he shifted out of his corner. He wasn't looking you in the eye; he was looking at the sheet of paper and the scissors in your hands.

"Okay." Your smile was fleeting but uncontrollable; if Saeran noticed it, he didn't say anything. Or, at least, he didn't react negatively to it. He was still fixated on the scissors and paper, and his hands were starting to shake. "I'll cut them for you."

"I can _do_ it," he insisted under his breath, but sat back in defeat all the same.

"I know," you told him, tilting your head when you looked over at him. Half of you hoped you could hold his gaze; the rest of you understood if he couldn't. "I know you can do it."

You did hold it, for a few seconds, before Saeran sank into himself and darted his eyes away. "Okay," he echoed. As if that was all he really needed to hear.

The first few stars and cranes that Saeran pinched together were nothing short of clumsy, and every so often he would throw down a half-folded strip or square with his teeth gritted and his brow bunched up in the middle, biting out that he couldn't do it. He couldn't fold them like _that_ , he'd say, pointing to the ones you'd already scooped into a glass jar. 

You never told him they were just stars, because it couldn't be about _just stars_. You never watched him too closely, either, in case the need to perfect every one stressed him out—and you knew the feeling more than well enough. Instead, you told him, "That's okay. Some stars don't shine as bright as others, but that doesn't mean they're not there, right?"

(Out of the corner of your eye, Saeyoung perked up in his seat. You didn't have to train your attention on him to know the words had hit him somewhere just outside of himself.)

Saeran bit his lip, hard. Grabbed another strip of paper. Got to folding again. It worked every time, and maybe he liked the consistency of it. The reassurance behind it. 

By the time you gathered up your belongings to head out to work, he'd made at least five that he was relatively proud of. He didn't say so, not in so many words—he only set them aside, pointed to them, and said, "These ones are bright."

You nodded, shrugging into your coat, and decided to risk the smile when you pointed to the other stars he'd made, a haphazard, rejected pile next to the half-full jar. "And these ones are here."

Saeran paused, gaze drifting between the pile and the jar and occasionally you. He seemed to be mouthing your words to himself, over and over, until something compelled him to gather up his stars, rejects and all, and sprinkle them in with yours.

"Now they're here," he said, and you couldn't tell the bright from the clumsy, but perhaps stars were never meant to be categorized by practice.

\---

During your afternoon break, Saeyoung texted you to tell you that Saeran had taken the jar of stars away to decorate his room, and that he was looking up origami patterns online in between lessons. And that he'd asked, "So when's your girlfriend coming over again?" Apparently Saeyoung was too excited to wait until he called you after work to tell you so.

On the one hand, the jig was up, and you didn't have to worry about being caught in the middle of it. Maybe he was saving _that_ for the phone call.

On the other hand, Saeran had actually asked, unprompted, if you were coming back. If stomach could flutter over friendship, then yours certainly did.

A few mornings a week, or a few weekends, with Saeran wouldn't be so bad. You didn't have to teach him anything just yet. You didn't have to oversee him. You just had to let him let you in. Exist with him, the way you were getting used to. Of course, you'd told yourself this before—with every step you took toward Saeyoung's house, in fact. But repetition only ever hurt you when you were vulnerable and it was out of your control. Did they know what that felt like? The sickness of fear and laughter and insults, all repetitive, all fabricated, all so mind-numbingly close to possible that it nearly killed you sometimes?

The thought that they might settled at the base of your throat, hard and unyielding, and you wished you could think of anything but either of them doubled over at their workstations, clutching at anything, praying to anyone for sanctuary.

 _Whenever he'd like to have me over,_ you managed to type out once your thoughts stopped immobilizing you. Maybe if Saeran had something tangible to read, as many times as he wanted, it would be easier for him to remember that there was someone real who liked him. Who looked forward to him.

It would be easy to remember that someone looked forward to you, too.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/omnistruck) and a [Tumblr](http://voltisubito.tumblr.com) if you want to follow for more suffering and shenanigans!
> 
> Also, I really enjoy kudos and reading your comments, so please leave either (or both!) if you liked this! Thank you for reading <333


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